


Eighteen

by jaxington



Series: Twenty-One [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Dystopia, Flashbacks, Half-Ass World Building, Homophobic Language, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 16:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3775402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaxington/pseuds/jaxington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey never had A Master Plan.  </p><p>His only plan in the last decade has been Find Ian.  </p><p>Instead, he's basically raised a kid, accidentally started a slow burning revolution, and failed everyone he actually cares about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eighteen

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Shamelessly Alternate prompt: Dystopia. Because I'm a sucker for Dystopia.
> 
> So I started this five days ago. World building in five days and 16,000 words has proved quite the challenge. It's not quite as flushed out concept-wise as it could be, but it will do.
> 
> Alas, no beta has corrected this. Only me and I am not very reliable as I have not been sleeping much (see: five days, 16,000 words)

Hide and Seek is Mickey’s best game. He wins almost every time.

Lip gets bored after about five minutes of either hiding or seeking. Ian just can't stay still.

In their neighborhood, in these woods at the back of his house all the way to the community garden and greenhouses across the dirt road, Mickey is the champion hider and seeker. Today it’s serving him well.

He’s wedged between a rock and a tree trunk, half way under a bush. To stay fully hidden he has to tuck his chin against his chest and the angle is starting to ache. But it’s working because no one’s found him in at least twenty minutes.

Lip’s stopped looking. Ian never will.  

Becoming Champion of Hide and Seek was a necessity. When his father gets drunk, his father gets loud, and he shouts terrible things that get into Mickey’s ears, even when he covers them with his hands.

_Your fucking whore mother. Of all the bitches I’ve knocked up over the years, she’s the only one to fucking leave me with a goddamn kid to raise._

Once, when Mickey was five, he very reasonably pointed out that Mom didn’t leave, she died, and there seemed like a pretty big difference. His father shattered a glass bottle against the wall.

Mickey started hiding after that.

The woods are his favorite. The gardens ain’t bad either, but there is always some grower in there, ready to shoo him away or scold him for eating under ripe strawberries.

But the woods. They are quiet, just soft sounds of birds and wind rustling leaves. He can stay in the woods for hours, amazed by the strange patterns of light that make it all the way down passed the leaves to glow on the forest floor. He likes the damp earth smell in his nose and the cool air on his skin. Sometimes he comes here even when no one is looking for him.

But today Ian’s looking him.

It’s another ten minutes before Ian comes tromping through the woods. He’s a small kid, as small as Mickey and Mickey’s real small, but he sure makes a lot of noise, breathing heavy. Sticks snap beneath his feet.

But Ian always finds him eventually and now he’s leaning against the rock, grinning. “Found you,” Ian says.

Because that’s what Ian does. When it’s a game and when it’s not, Ian finds him.

* * *

 

As often as he can manage to weasel together a sufficient supply, Mickey gets drunk in the orchard on illegal liquor.  

It starts out just him, on warm nights, so he can mourn the loss of Ian in peace, surrounded by the smell of fruit trees with twinkling stars over his head. He drinks himself cross-eyed and mutters under his breath about how fucking stupid the whole system is.

Who was the genius who put all the revolutionaries and critical thinkers and people they fucked over together, in charge of growing the fucking food? How fucking easy would it be, to tear it all down, just with a little goddamn organization?

Nine months since he’s seen Ian, since they took him.

Three months he’s been a guard, bottom of the barrel, in charge of checking people out of the compound in the morning and checking people back in at night.

Only three months when they find him muttering drunk under a tree.

It’s Veronica and Fiona. Veronica’s a guard too, though higher ranking than him, in charge of the east field, and Fiona’s a prisoner that’s been here a week longer than him.

“What’d they get you for?” Mickey asks Fiona, all his words slurring together. He shares his liquor because this prisoner and this guard are friends. Just by daring to be friends, they are giving a big fuck you to the man. Mickey likes that enough to share.

Fiona’s got big dark eyes, porcelain pale skin, and a sad smile. “Wouldn’t have a kid,” she says. Her story isn’t that different than most all the other prisoners. It’s the number one reason people get picked up. Wouldn’t have a kid, couldn’t bear to try. “Was already raising my three little siblings after my mom split. Couldn’t handle another. That wasn’t good enough apparently.”

“Got to meet those quotas,” says Veronica, reaching for the bottle. She’s as pretty as Fiona, her dark brown skin without flaws. Her laugh is big enough to fill the whole compound.

“How come you didn’t have kids?” Fiona asks.

“Couldn’t,” Vee replies, shrugging. “They gave me the choice. The Farmland or adoption.”

“Good call,” Mickey says, gratefully accepting his bottle. “You know where those adopted babies come from?”

“No,” says Vee.

“Where?” whispers Fiona, like they’re little kids and Mickey’s telling ghost stories around a fire.

“Don’t fucking know,” Mickey says, reclining against the truck of his favorite apple tree. It reminds him of Ian for no real reason other than everything he loves reminds him of Ian. “That can’t mean anything good.”

“Why didn’t you adopt?” asks Fiona.

“My husband got taken,” Veronica says. “A long time ago. Don’t even know what he did. Just never came home from work. They wouldn’t tell me anything. Figured at least out here I’d have a shot of finding him again.”

“Good fucking luck,” says Mickey, wondering how many of the guards share Vee’s reasoning like Mickey does. “Do you know how fucking stupid the whole fucking system is? Who was the genius who put all the revolutionaries and critical thinkers and people they fucked over together, in charge of growing the fucking food? How fucking easy would it be, to tear it all down, just with a little goddamn organization?”

They listen with rapt attention.

* * *

 

The first time someone Mickey knows gets taken, it’s his teacher and he is ten. Mickey sees the whole thing too, because they’re eating lunch in Mr. Scott’s classroom. Him and the twins eating at their little pod of desks to avoid the bullies on the playground.

Growing up, it’s always been him and the twins.

Mothers’ dead, fathers’ fulfilling their quotas with other families and other women so they won’t have to do any more child raising. They have the same story and the three of them take care of each other when their fathers are more interested in illegal drink than actual fathering.

Which is always.

Mickey the oldest, beating out Lip by two months, and Lip the second oldest, beating out Ian by two minutes. Ian the youngest and the smallest, with his red hair and freckles. The twins barely look related, Lip’s hair sandy and sticking up everywhere, his features more delicate. They are twins anyway, born two minutes apart.

Earlier today, in math, everyone kept calling Lip by the name his parents gave him. “Where’s your dress Philippa?” they taunted. “Girls wear dresses.”

“He’s not a fucking girl!” said Ian, leaping to his feet. Mickey held him back and Mr. Scott didn’t even give him detention, just said Ian had to stay in his classroom for lunch and recess. A non-punishment punishment. They were gonna do that anyway.

“Lip’s not a girl.” That’s what Ian had said to Mickey too, when they were seven, just without the _fuck_. One day he marched up to Mickey on the playground, Lip trailing along behind him.

“Lip’s not a girl anymore,” Ian had said as Lip stared down at the ground.

“Did he grow a wiener?” Mickey asked, shocked that he’d never heard of this possibility.

“No,” Ian replied, rolling his eyes. “Lip’s just not actually a girl. Wieners don’t matter. He’s a boy like us so call him a he, okay?”

Mickey shrugged. “Okay.”

Not everyone gets it like Ian and Mickey and Lip get it.

The twin’s dad, Frank, he doesn’t get it but he also doesn’t give a shit.

The couple of bullies in the class don’t get it, even if most of the other kids do.

Terry will never, ever, not in a million years get it, so on the rare occasions that Lip has to be around Mickey’s dad they have to pretend Lip’s a girl.

It sucks.

But Mr. Scott. He gets it and that’s why he doesn’t punish Ian for saying fuck.

Lip sits on top of his desk, eating a sandwich and reading the book in his lap. Ian has his leg wrapped around Mickey’s calf, swinging their joined legs back and forth. They bicker over what to trade of their lunches. The bickering is tradition, even though each lunch ends with Mickey getting Ian’s fruit slices and Ian getting Mickey’s peanut butter.

They’ve nearly struck a deal when six men, all dressed in heavy black armor, holding guns, masks over their faces, burst into the room.

Mickey scrambles up and out of his seat, pulling Ian to his back as Lip presses into his side.

Lip and Mickey decided a long time ago that Ian needs protecting. Ian might yell at their classmates about Lip not being a girl, but the rest of the time it’s Lip defending Ian. Lip’s older than Ian, even if it’s just by a few minutes, and he takes his job as older brother very seriously. Mickey just needs Ian to be safe to feel safe himself.

Mr. Scott doesn’t even protest as they drag him away, but Mickey wants to say something to make them stop. He is screaming inside, but none of the words make it out of his mouth.

“Why’d he get taken?” Mickey asks his dad that night. “He’s a good teacher.”

“Don’t fucking say that,” snaps Terry. Always snapping. “He’s a fucking faggot! Can’t have him spreading that filth to the next generation, can we? How’re we ever gonna repopulate with men wasting good fucks on other men? It’s unnatural is what it is.”

Mickey thinks of Ian and is suddenly very worried.

* * *

 

The Farmland is hundreds of miles south east of Chicago, isolated by distance and lacking roads. Best accessed by aircraft, they make it hard to leave and few know where it actually is.

There are runners every year, their bodies usually found after the winter thaw, frozen and starved. Mickey likes to think some people make it all the way to the east coast and the cities there, where freedom actually means freedom.

Thousands upon thousands of square miles, The Farmland is divided into twenty-one sections with various acreage and agricultural specialties. Prisoners work all the sections, people taken from Chicago as criminals with no trial, no appeals process, just the word of the Population Growth Committee that they are a threat to the great mission to repopulate.

People like Ian who got sad for a minute. People who say “fuck you” when some government agency says “procreate.”

A huge chunk of land, twenty-one sections, thousands of prisoners, and Ian's as lost to him now, as he was when he was first taken.

Mickey got the job way out here, but he didn't understand what a massive undertaking finding Ian would be until he heard thousands upon thousands of square miles, divided into twenty-one sections.

Mickey’s at Eighteen, the section with the largest orchards. He likes the endless rows of towering trees. There are a few other fields, too, the grow operation surrounding the compound buildings. Buildings with no character, where prisoners live and eat and do their winter work, and where guards sleep and learn to be growers and clean their guns.

There are around eighty people working Eighteen and none of them are Ian.

The guards don't just guard, but the smart ones grow too, and Mickey resolves to learn everything there is to know about the orchard.

Finding Ian is going to take years and Mickey settles in for the long haul. He’ll learn everything there is to know about the orchard and the whole fucking Farmland system, too.

* * *

 

When Karen gets pregnant a year after Mickey gets to Eighteen, they find out where the babies adopted in Chicago come from.

In the first years there are different kinds of prisoners, Shelia explains to him. (She’s been here long enough and ought to know.) Newbies are usually either terrified or depressed or so fucking angry.

Ian was probably a combination of the first too. Mickey can’t shake the thought.

Karen was taken a year and a half ago, and she's still so fucking angry. When she gets knocked up, she only gets angrier.

She tells Shelia first because Shelia's been here the longest. Shelia tells Mickey next, because he's only been here a year but Shelia seems to know that he's different.

"Does this happen a lot?" Mickey asks, having no fucking clue. He can't imagine anyone raising a baby out here.

"No," whispers Sheila. She leans close and looks behind her shoulder, terrified of being overheard. "We take care of that." She gives him a significant look that he fails to accurately interpret.

"Because there’s that zero fraternization policy?"

The only reason to fuck, is to make babies. The people out here have been banned from society, probably because of some genetic defect. Following that ridiculous Pop Com logic, there is no reason for prisoners to be fucking.

Mickey always thought that rule was pretty much ignored. The Population Growth Committee’s constant, hovering presence in Chicago doesn’t seem to extend to The Farmland. They make the rules, but don’t have the resources to enforce them and don’t care too, as long as all the sections are productive.

"No, silly," says Sheila, slapping his shoulder. "Everyone has sex. We just are very good at making sure this sort of thing doesn't happen."

"Oh," says Mickey, burning red. Birth control is not something he's ever had to consider in his whole life. Still, he knows that it is the most widely available contraband in Chicago, just after booze. "So what happens now?"

Shelia looks disappointed. "Aren't you the revolutionary around here? I thought you'd know what to do."

Mickey's drunken ranting is giving him an unearned reputation and now it's not just Ian he is disappointing every day he fails to find him, but Shelia too, by not actually being as radical as his too much talk makes him sound.

"This is gonna have to go to Lishman."

"You can't tell the captain!"

"How the hell are we supposed to hide a fucking pregnancy, huh? And a fucking baby?"

"She doesn't want there to ever be a baby." Shelia is giving him a significant look again and this time Mickey gets it.

"I'll see what I can do.”

* * *

 

Veronica knows someone who knows someone who knows a doctor out of Six who performs abortions.

"Are we really going to make this happen?" Vee asks. They sit under a tree without Fiona today. The fewer people burdened with this the better, so no Fiona. "It's a life, Mickey. Life is precious."

And that's the foundation of all this fuckery. Life is precious. If history isn't lying, this mass of land from sea to shining sea was once crawling, thriving, prospering with human life, but they didn't find it all that precious. Murder was a thing that happened daily, not just once in Mickey's whole lifetime. The food wasn’t healthy and they died out in droves.

With so few people left, every life has to matter but that's not how it actually works.

Ian's life is less precious because his brain goes manic and then depressive. Karen's life is only precious because there's a life growing inside her, because she always has the ability to have more life growing inside of her.

"What about Karen?" Mickey asks. "What about her life? Why’s she forced to turn into a breeding machine? To carry around a kid she'll have to give up? And then she'll have to live the rest of her precious as fuck life knowing that she's got a kid out there somewhere, being raised by strangers, that she'll never get to meet or know. It's fucked up, Vee."

Taking a deep breath, Veronica rubs her hands over her face. "Yeah, okay. I'll set it up."

* * *

 

They set it up, but Captain Lishman finds out first. The prisoners in this fucking place can keep their mouths shut about Mickey’s dangerous drunken ranting but not a baby.

Nine months later Karen screams her way through delivery. Pop Com members in perfect white suits – probably stitched together by the people in Eighteen during some miserable winter, probably stitched together by Karen – waiting to take away her kid.

Mickey stays in the hall with Vee. Shelia sits on the floor with her back to the wall next to the door to the infirmary. She covers her ears like that will block out Karen's screams, rocking in place. Mickey can't get her to leave.

The baby’s crying joins the noise and Karen's screaming changes. She begs, demands, fucking _pleads_ to see her kid, to hold him just once, but she is ignored and sedated.

Mickey can't look as the smug bastards in white suits take the kid away in a mobile incubator.

* * *

 

Terry calls men who love men faggots and places them solely responsible for ruining the noble effort to save the population. Terry lives in the box and wants to fill in the gaps of humanity that now live in tiny pockets from sea to shinning sea, to make it all One Big Country again, like it was hundreds of years ago.   Now its just Chicago, Boston, New Vancouver and other places too, with less rules and more chaos. Small independent cities with their own laws and their own relationships, the great distances of land between them empty.

Terry calls men who love men faggots.

Mickey's always loved Ian anyway.

He always knew it was different from how he's always loved Lip. Lip's firmly in the Best Friend Category. Ian's always been More.

They are thirteen years old when Ian feels the need to say something, to give words to this thing that they've both always known.

"I love you, you know," Ian says. They are walking home, just the two of them. Lip is a total nerd and they see him less with every extra curricular he joins. Today, it’s robotics club.

"I know," says Mickey.

"But I mean it!" Ian gets in front of Mickey, putting his hands on Mickey's shoulders. They both stop walking.

"I know," Mickey replies, rolling his eyes. Ian thinks things aren't real unless you say them out loud but Mickey knows better.  

"Mickey!" Ian shakes him by his shoulders, getting all riled up like he does sometimes. "You don't get it."

"I do get it."

"You don't! I love you in that way Terry hates."

"I know." Mickey pats Ian's hands, trying to be comforting, but Ian just huffs. He pulls away to pace along the familiar dirt path that will take them home if Ian can manage to calm down for five minutes and just breathe.

"Can't you ever be serious!" Ian demands, scowling at him. "I mean it."

"I know you mean it," Mickey says. "And I love you back. It's just always been like that. Why you gotta turn it into a big fucking thing, huh?"

"You love me back?" Ian perks up a little, but he still doesn’t believe that Mickey gets the kind of love he's talking about.

"Course I do."

Sprinting back to stand in front of Mickey again, Ian presses close. They are the same height now, not tall but taller than Lip. Nose to nose, Ian gets so close that Mickey goes cross-eyed as he tries to maintain eye contact.

"Gonna kiss you now," says Ian.

"Why're you wasting time talking about it, then?" Mickey says back.

Ian grins as he makes good on that promise. His lips are soft and dry and hot. Mickey's in big trouble here, but he can't bring himself to care.

There is a box and to stay happy, living in Chicago, you fit yourself into the box. The box is staying healthy and making as many babies as possible. In the box it doesn’t matter how you raise them, so long as you are growing the population and contributing to society. Mickey’s known about the box for as long as he’s loved Ian and hated his dad.

Him and Ian don’t fit in the box.

So fuck the box.

* * *

 

“Mickey. Hey.”

Sully’s hand is on his shoulder, big and warm, and Mickey wonders if the guard looked this good last year. He’s stationed out of Eleven and specializes in corn. They met three years ago, when Mickey first attended the big winter meeting where all the guards who specialize as growers get together and plan what crops will go in what fields, how much good soil they’ll need, what field will be fallow and for how long, water supplies and irrigation schedules.

That first year he let Sully fuck him outside, despite the snow. Then he got drunk and told Sully about how fucking stupid the whole system is.

The second year, Sully came back to him, excited about how the word was spreading, like Mickey was preaching a gospel and Sully’d found him converts. Like Mickey was trying to start a revolution, when he really just wanted to rant about the thing that lost him Ian.

That second year he met Molly from Thirteen and Estefania from Twenty-One, guards, growers, and revolutionaries. Before he said anything he asked them all if they had any prisoners meeting Ian’s description. They all said no and Mickey swallowed his disappointment, checking off sections in his head.

Not in Eighteen, not in Eleven, not in Thirteen, not in Twenty-One.

“Sully,” he greets, nodding his head. They are inside now, at Four because it’s got the most acreage. He hopes Sully isn’t stupid enough to talk converts to the Gospel of Mickey while they’re still inside, with so many ears around. “You get any transfers in the last year? Redhead? Green eyes? Giant?”

Sully chuckles and shakes his head. “Sorry, man. You ask that every year. This guy must’ve been something.”

Mickey shrugs.

“But this is weird,” Sully says, pulling Mickey into an alcove as if that will protect them from anyone who wants to listen. “Got a newbie, fresh from the South Side. Asked for you by name.”

Mickey’s heart races, but he keeps his face impassive. “Who?”

“Female. Twenty-three. Philippa. Ring any bells?”

“What’d she do?” Mickey stumbles over the wrong pronoun and struggles to stay impassive.

“Looks like she’s been taking testosterone for the last couple years. Smuggled it in from the east coast. Guess that’s the kinda thing that would interfere with the baby-making.”

“I fucking guess.” The call goes up for to gather in the main hall. They’ll stand around a detailed map of The Farmland, and discuss every field, every orchard, every pasture. “Look, Sully. Think you can get her transferred to Eighteen for me?”

“Probably,” Sully replies. “Why? You know her?”

“Not sure,” Mickey lies. “But I kinda want to find out.”

* * *

 

They do the prisoner transfer on the border between Fifteen and Sixteen. Sully and three other guards, all on horseback, flank Lip on his own horse. Mickey’s only brought Veronica. He wishes Fiona were here, too.

Lishman, Captain of Eighteen, might be a drunk old lady who adores Mickey’s bad attitude, promotes him over guards that have been around longer, and lets him get away with everything – like a fucking prisoner transfer for no real reason – but even Mickey couldn’t figure out a way to bring Fiona along.

Can’t bring a prisoner instead of a guard along to unrelated prisoner exchange.

Still, he really wanted to bring Fiona along. If Veronica is his right hand than Fiona is his left.

Sully and Mickey exchange tablets, making the necessary finger impressions on the screens and electronically signing off on the transfer.

Yes, the prisoner was transferred from Eleven to Eighteen.

No, the prisoner was not damaged in anyway.

Yes, Eighteen now takes full responsibility for the prisoner.

Lip keeps his head down as he slides off his horse. Mickey grips his elbow, so fucking relieved to see his best friend and so fucking heartbroken that its here in The Farmland.

They watch Sully and his crew ride off, waiting for them to disappear over a ridge before Mickey pulls Lip into a hug.

“You goddamn asshole,” he says in Lip’s ear, squeezing him tight. “You weren’t supposed to get taken. You were supposed to let me find your brother before we all escape to the east coast.”

“Oh yeah? Then where’s my fucking brother, dickhead? You’re doing a real good job so far.” Lip hugs him back and Mickey’s glad that his face is hidden. Lip’s voice is deeper than it used to be but its so fucking good to hear it Mickey thinks he might do something stupid like cry.

“Fuck, man,” Mickey says, pulling away as he finally gets ahold of himself. Lip’s got facial hair now, too, but its just making him look run down and old. Mickey scratches at his jaw anyway. “It’s coming in nice.”

“Testosterone,” Lip says ruefully, grinning a little bit now. “Highly illegal. Actually like it clean shaven, though.”

“Yeah?” asks Mickey. “Then what’s the point of the illegal man juice?”

“This,” Lip says, flexing his biceps. It’s difficult to see thought Lip’s winter furs, standard issue for all prisoners, but he does seem a little broader. “And you know, just trying not to feel like my body isn’t a goddamn prison.”

Mickey claps Lip on the shoulder.

“Fucking missed you, brother,” he says and Lip’s brow gets all furrowed, eyes shut tight like it’s hard work not to cry. “The fuck is with the waterworks, dude? Since when are you such a sap? Miss me that much?”

Lip shakes his head and laughs. “Well, yeah. But I was at Eleven for almost a month, with all the guards calling me Philippa and it was driving me a little crazy, you know? You called me man and brother and dude. Just fucking needed to hear it.”

“A month?” Mickey asks, worried. “That’s a long time to go without your stuff, right?”

“The T?” Lip asks. “Uh, yeah. Just kinda resigned myself to going without.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Yo, Vee!” He waves Veronica over and she trots closer, leading the horse for Lip. She just knows things, like that she needed to stay a respectful distance away to let Mickey and Lip have their reunion. “This is my man, Lip. We grew up together. He’s a real smart ass, so watch out. Lip, this is Veronica and she’s awesome.”

“Nice to meet you, Lip,” says Veronica. That look of shocked elation prisoners get when they realize that Eighteen is different, that most of the guards are people who treat people like people, is one of Mickey’s favorite things. Lip’s expression doesn’t disappoint.

“Get your ass on that horse,” Mickey says. “Time to go home.”

* * *

 

Terry gives him a black eye and a busted nose for his sixteenth birthday. Ian cleans him up, slathers him in sunscreen, and drags him to the beach.

It’s a long walk through the woods to the lake. A lot of people are out, walking like them, on horses, on bikes, enjoying the heat after a long winter.

Ian holds his hand, occasionally pulling him closer. He wraps a protective arm around Mickey’s shoulders when they pass people on the path, like these familiar faces are going to give Mickey another black eye when they raise their hands to wave.

Lip turns around to yell – _hurry the fuck up, lovebirds_ – at regular intervals.

When they get to the lake they settle on the shoreline, feet in the water and asses in the sand. The sun is hot and Mickey is slathered in sunscreen, but Lip can’t take his shirt off so neither will Ian or Mickey.

Ian digs around in his backpack, emerging triumphant with a baggie of dried blueberries and presenting them with a huge grin to Mickey.

“Holy fuck,” Mickey says, reverently taking the bag from Ian’s hands. “Where the fuck did you get these? It’s May!”

It was a long winter and fruit supplies dwindled a month ago. It’s been all cabbage and potatoes for weeks.

Ian beams, kissing Mickey’s cheek and bringing his lips to Mickey’s ear. “Happy birthday, Mick.”

Mickey opens the bag carefully and selects one berry, plopping it on his tongue and holding it there for a moment before crushing it slowly between his teeth.

“ _Ian_.” He groans out the name, throwing his head back and closing his eyes as he chews. The sound is admittedly obscene and Mickey ignores Lip’s disgusted muttering. “You’re fucking amazing. Blueberry?” He offers Ian the bag.

They eat the treat slowly but Lip only has a couple because he’s an asshole who’s “just not that into fruit.”

“Okay, time for my gift,” Lip says, digging around in Ian’s backpack, emerging triumphant with a metal water bottle. “Stole it from Frank.”

“My gift’s better,” Ian says. Mickey privately agrees but doesn’t say anything as Lip and Ian wrestle in the sand.

They get a buzz on, drinking Frank’s liquor, and Lip wanders off, entranced by Danielle Osborn lounging in a bikini with her sisters a little ways down the beach.

“What kind of person _does_ this?” Ian asks like he’s been asking since Mickey showed up at their front door bruised.   He reaches up to run his thumb along Mickey’s cheekbone, just under the black around his eye. “He hit you before?”

Mickey shakes his head.

“Why now?”

“Don’t fucking know. Maybe he found out about us. We ain’t exactly hiding it.”

“Shit, Mickey. What’re we gonna do?”

Mickey doesn’t have the answers, doesn’t even want to think about it on his fucking birthday. For once Ian lets it go, allowing Mickey watch the water for awhile. When Lip and Danielle and her sisters run into the lake, splashing each other, Mickey watches them too.

“You’re brother is a goddamn flirt,” Mickey says as Lip makes the girls giggle. He smirks and swaggers and uses his big brain to make girls swoon.

“It’s a good thing you’ve got me,” Ian replies, resting his head on Mickey’s shoulder. “You’re hopeless at flirting.”

“Am not!”

“You really are.”

“Bullshit.”

“Try it. Flirt with me now.” Ian sits up and waits expectantly.

Mickey blinks, his brain too blank. “Hey, uh, man. You’re got a, uh, nice— Aye, fuck it.”

Ian presses his delighted laugh into Mickey’s neck. “Like you cranky, not flirty.”

Face tilled toward the sun, Ian’s lips hot on his skin, Mickey can only hum.

“Come live with us,” Ian says.

“What?”

“Seriously. Frank’s never there. Gotta get you away from your fucking father.”

“Yeah, _okay_ , tough guy,” Mickey says, snorting.

“Why not?”

“You don’t want me around all the time,” Mickey mutters, scooting away because what Ian’s offering is too tempting.

Ian rolls his eyes. “You’re already around all the time.”

“We’re kids, man! Living together is like what serious, married people do.”

Ian rolls his eyes again. “I’m fucking serious. Are you not fucking serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious! Shit! That’s not the fucking point.”

Ian sighs heavily, shaking his head with exasperated fondness before he nuzzles back into Mickey’s neck. “Come live with me.”

“No.”

“Mickey!” Ian sings, still nuzzling. “Come live with me!”

He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “No. Maybe. Shit.”

“Maybe?” Ian’s head pops up. “Maybe’s not no.”

“Will you just give me some time to fucking process, shithead?”

“Okay,” Ian says, beaming. “Hey, those berries ain’t your only present.”

Ian’s got that look in his eye that means good things for Mickey’s ass. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” When Ian kisses him, he can feel Ian smiling against his lips. He tastes like blueberries.

Ian presses him back into the warm sand, his tongue hot in Mickey’s mouth. Ian’s gentle, slow, careful to avoid Mickey’s bruises. Fingers running through Ian’s hair, Mickey pulls Ian firmly on top of him, his weight heavy and familiar. Mickey feels like he’s sinking into the sand, down, down, down, to somewhere safe and dragging Ian with him.  

Ian kisses him, and Mickey’s nose doesn’t throb, his eye doesn’t sting, and his heart’s not so heavy.

“That’s public indecency!” Lip yells from the lake. “Get your asses in the water,” he manages to shout right before Danielle dunks his head below the surface.

Mickey flips him the bird and let’s Ian drag him to the water.

* * *

 

Mickey gets results.

That’s what they tell him when they promote him to second overseer, in charge of the whole fucking orchard.

Of course Mickey fucking gets results. Unlike the old school guards who throw around their power like they throw around their fists, Mickey never uses the punishments at his disposal. He does not give out lashings, beatings, and worst of all, The Goddamn Shed where prisoners are forced to spend days alone, confined in that hot, tight space.

Mickey treats the prisoners like people because that’s what they fucking are. There are fifty-two prisoners enslaved on Eighteen and to Mickey they are all Ian, trapped out here and cut off from their families because they spoke up, spoke out, or just couldn’t fucking do it.

They promote him because Mickey gets results. His secret is knowing all their names, all their stories. He dismisses the guards who leave black eyes and broken bones in their wake and when he tells his prisoners that if they are productive enough, Pop Com will leave them the fuck alone, everyone works a little harder because they are working for themselves.

* * *

 

"I can't get your stuff," Mickey says.

He lives everyday failing Ian and now he's failing Lip, too.

Lip looks awful, losing weight and hands shaking. Winter means everyone lives with cold bones, but it's worse on Lip, already suffering without the injections he's lived on for years.

He struggles with the winter work, too. His job is easy, sewing on four hole buttons with a basic stitch, but his fingers won't corporate. Shelia's in charge of the sewing room during the winter so no one says anything when Fiona and Veronica sew Lip's buttons.

"What?" Lip blinks up balefully from his seat on a bench where he's huddled close to Fiona, not sewing.

"Here," says Mickey, handing over a mug of hot tea and hoping that wrapping his hands around the warmth will help. "Come on."

Lip follows slowly with his mug warming his hands as Mickey leads him to the storage room where they keep all the rolls of fabric. Weaving it is the winter work of Ten, their warehouses full of giant looms.

"I can't get your stuff," Mickey says again when they can't be heard. “The T. At least not right now. Doesn’t look like a pipeline’s open for it.”

"Well," says Lip, shrugging and defeated. "You tried."

Lip was defeated before this last blow. There are a couple guards who still use the wrong pronouns, still hiss _Phillippa_ , but they don't have the balls to do it when Mickey or Veronica are in earshot. Mickey’s going to fire their asses the moment he has even the tiniest hint of cause.

Dysphoria, Lip calls it, and Mickey might not really get what that means, but Fiona says Lip wakes up to panic attacks most nights so it's got to be bad.

"I think you gotta get out of here, man," Mickey murmurs. "This place is killing you."

Lip cracks a hallow smile. "What? You gonna send me back to Eleven? With you here, this is my best option."

"No," Mickey corrects. "It's really not.”

* * *

 

In the summer they smuggle Lip out in a crate of romaine lettuce.

It's headed to Boston, to the infamous east coat where they always need good, clean food. Chicago will get solar panels or Humvees or raw materials back. With so many people in Chicago living off their own food supply, a lot of what's grown in The Farmland gets sent out for trade and this time Lip's going with it.

"Settle in the city," Mickey instructs as Lip crawls into the crate. He clutches a threadbare bag to his chest. Mickey filled it full of the illegal marijuana the guards are growing in the west field. It'll work as currency for Lip until he can find something steady. "Learn a goddamn trade with that giant brain that'll help me track down the you're brother, alright?"

Lip nods solemnly. "I'm thinking the internet. If we can get around those firewalls, find a way to use it without anyone in the government knowing, we'll be able to communicate. Maybe I can hack into the system to find Ian. I dunno. The options are endless. But I think it's gotta be the internet."

Mickey kisses Lip on the forehead, right between his eyes. "Then fucking do it, smart ass. Stay safe."

* * *

 

Snow falls heavy and deep, making the trek to school impossible for the third day in a row. It happens every winter. If it’s not the snow keeping them inside it’s the cold, and the teachers, anticipating this, always assign buckets of homework.

Lip got his done the first snow day and has been puttering with electronics in the basement since.

Mickey briefly considered opening a book, but it didn’t take much for Ian to convince him to stay in their bed for three days, only getting up when they absolutely have to.

Somehow, when they were dozing after the last round, Ian ended up sharing Mickey’s pillow, their legs all tangled together. He opens his eyes to see Ian’s nose only inches from his.

“Stop watching me sleep, weirdo.”

Ian’s quiet, his brow all furrowed and thoughtful. In the space between their chests he plays with Mickey’s fingers.

“What?” Mickey whispers, not liking how serious Ian is suddenly, when he was so fucking happy before Mickey closed his eyes.

“You want kids?” Ian asks, propping his head up on an elbow.

Mickey just stares at him, not in the practice of answering stupid fucking questions.

“Come on, don’t give me the eyebrows. It’s not a stupid question!” Ian insists.

“We have to have kids, so it doesn’t matter what anyone wants.” He fucking hates that they have to consider this. Barely seventeen and already Mickey’s scrambling in the privacy of his own head to figure out a way to procreate without totally hating it. This is not something he wants to talk about with Ian until he absolutely has to.

“It should fucking matter!” Ian says. “The whole thing is fucked. Have a bunch a kids and if you don’t want them, just forget about them, it doesn’t fucking matter as long as you’re adding to the goddamn population!”

Ian’s getting real worked up now and Mickey runs a hand over his ribs. “Okay, tough guy. You’re right. Doesn’t change anything though.”

Ian takes Mickey’s hand in his, kissing his palm. “Asked what you want. I guess, I mean, you wanna be a parent? Those’re two different things, right? Having kids and being a parent.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees. “They’re different.”

“So,” says Ian, settling down again. “You wanna be a parent?”

“With you?”

“Yup.”

“I mean, it wouldn’t be so bad. If I didn’t have to fuck some chick to do it.”

Ian laughs and Mickey doesn’t get why. There is nothing remotely funny about the fucked situation they are getting closer to every day.

“You don’t wanna fuck some chick?” Ian asks, pushing at Mickey’s shoulder until he’s flat on his back with Ian crawling over him.

“Fuck no.”

“Don’t have to do any of that to have kids,” Ian murmurs, leaning down to kiss Mickey like he fully intends to just let that baffling statement hang there.

Mickey covers Ian’s mouth with his hand, giving him the eyebrows.

“There’s this clinic,” Ian says, batting away Mickey’s hand. He’s excited again, grinning and practically vibrating. “Up North. Where they pair up queer people to procreate. Like, they’d give us some nice, lesbian couple.”

“Give us? To, like, _fuck_?” Mickey asks, horrified.

Ian laughs again. “No, that’s all done medically. You jerk it into a cup or something.”

“Huh.”

“See? Not so bad.”

Distracted by Ian hovering over him, bending his head to kiss neck, Mickey only grunts in reply.

“So we meet some nice lesbians who’re not all that interested in the parenting part, so they hand over the babies and maybe visit sometimes. Everyone meets their quotas. Everyone’s happy.” Ian’s breathing his words out into Mickey’s skin between kisses.

Wrapped up in Ian’s presence, Mickey actually believes Ian’s hopeful, excited vision of the future. Maybe it will be that easy. Maybe they will build their own box within a box and live the way they need to.  

“And our kids will have blue eyes.”

“Red hair,” Mickey corrects, running his fingers through Ian’s curls. Ian huffs, lips finally finding Mickey’s.

The kiss is lazy, like there is nothing that would stop them from just kissing indefinitely. Maybe with the snow deep outside and Ian’s plan for their future, they could.

“And,” Ian continues, ignoring Mickey’s irritated whining over the fact that he’s no longer being kissed. “You’ll be a grower. Just like now, you’ll spend all summer with tomatoes and all fall canning them and all winter rationing them. Maybe you’ll run some community garden. Or a grow house. And you’ll teach our kids the difference between romas and heirlooms and they’ll actually listen to you maybe.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, kinda getting into it now. “Unlike their other father who’s criminally uninterested in food.”

Ian hums, one hand cradling Mickey’s jaw, one hand gripping his hip, back to kissing Mickey’s neck.

“And you,” whispers Mickey, hands still in Ian’s hair. “Maybe you’ll be a teacher.”

Ian grins and nods, telling Mickey to keep going.

“The kids will groan about you being at the school all the fucking time, but they’ll secretly like having you around. And I’ll bring you lunch and that’ll embarrass them, too.”

“And we’ll move far away from our terrible fathers who don’t even deserve to be called fathers.”

“Good call,” Mickey agrees. His head comes off the pillow so he can chase Ian’s lips.

“We’ll have a house by the lake.”

“In the woods,” Mickey corrects.

“Lake.”

“Woods.”

They argue it out through lips, Ian kissing him hard, Mickey using his teeth. Mickey tugs on Ian’s hair and Ian hikes Mickey’s legs up on his hips and they forget all about the future.

* * *

 

There is a blow up in the apple section, an argument about when to prune what, and making sure everyone cools off makes Mickey late to meet their latest prisoner. It’s a newbie, too, fresh meat straight from Chicago.

Mickey might only technically be third in command, but the first overseer is lazy and only got the job because he knows someone important and the captain is mostly retired. Mickey runs Eighteen as he sees fit and this is why he really should not have been late to greet the newbie.

There is no one on the pad, where prisoners get dropped off and crops get picked up via hovercraft, and Mickey frowns. 

There is no one at check in either, except Sheila, in charge of monitoring everyone that goes in and everyone that comes out of the main building today. This is usually a guard’s job, but Shelia can’t really handle being outside and there is not much indoor work for prisoners in the summer.

“Oh, Mickey,” she says, standing abruptly when she sees him. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here. That poor boy.  Your little minions have no idea what to do with him.”

“What happened?” Mickey demands.

“He doesn’t say much,” Shelia replies. “Or anything, actually. And the guards didn’t seem to like that at all. It’s Nando.”

“Fuck,” Mickey mutters. Shelia looks like she wants to scold him for his language, most days she probably would, and whatever is going down with the newbie must be pretty bad if Shelia is managing to keep her mouth shut.

“I think they're taking him to the bunk room.”

Mickey practically sprints.

All the prisoners share one giant space to sleep in. They each have their own cot, but the ceilings in here are high enough to keep the room from feeling too claustrophobic, even if navigating the narrow aisles between rows of cots is tricky.

Mickey’s got his own room, small and simple, but private, and being in the bunkroom always makes him feel guilty about it. Sometimes he rants about it when he gets drunk.

There is a commotion in the corner, but Mickey can only make out two of his guards, looming over a cot. Beto’s not bad, calm and good humored, but he listens to Nando without question and Nando’s a violent fuck.

Of course it’s Nando screaming obscenities in Spanish at the cot while Beto shakes his head, looking down at the tablet in his hands.

“Shut the fuck up!” Mickey’s yelling joins in with Nando’s, and after another round of threats, Nando does actually shut up. “Give me that.” Beto hands over the tablet and Mickey starts to read.

“He will not get out from under this fucking bed!” Nando screams, actually spitting he is so angry. “He disrespects us. I’m going to rip away this cot and stick him in The Shed for as many days as I’ve spend minutes demanding he get out here!”

Mickey’s still reading, his stomach sinking until it feels like he won’t be able to stay on his feet another moment, dragged down by the weight of the words on his screen. “He’s twelve,” Mickey whispers.

“I do not fucking care if he’s a goddamn toddler! These prisoners will respect me, even if you let them walk all over you,” says Nando.

“He’s twelve?” Mickey says again, screaming this time. “Is this fucking right? How the fuck can he fucking be twelve?”

Ian’s the youngest he’s ever heard of before now. Taken at seventeen.

Twelve doesn’t make sense. The foundation of Pop Com is life, growing the population, and at age twelve there is so much potential for that life and the direction it could take. By the mid-twenties, a person is who they’re gonna be, and if whoever they are doesn’t fit into the box, then they get shipped out here, the cancer removed from the healthy cells so it won’t infect anyone else and do anymore damage.

Twelve is too young to infect anything.  

“Get the fuck outta here,” Mickey says to Nando. “I fucking mean it, shitbird.”

Nando storms off, muttering under his breath, but much to Mickey’s surprise Beto sticks around.

“He is so young,” Beto murmurs. “And Nando hit him when he would not speak. His parents are North Side, someone important with Pop Com. The details are unclear, but it looks like he was locked in a closet for five days before he was taken.”

“And Nando wanted to throw him in The Goddamn Shed?” It takes three deep breaths before Mickey’s calmed down enough to deal with this scared little boy. The urge to beat the shit out of Nando has not left him, but instead of using his fists he’s gonna fire that asshole. So this boy will never have to see him again, so Mickey will never have to see him again. “Anything else on that tablet?” he asks Beto.

“His name is Yevgeny.”

Nodding, Mickey drops to his stomach. Huddled as close to the wall as possible is a little boy with big eyes and light hair, shaking so badly Mickey worries that he’ll actually fall apart.

“Hey, Yev,” he says.

It takes two hours to coax Yev out from under the bed. Mickey sets him up on the couch in his office and then immediately puts in Nando’s transfer back to Chicago.

With Nando out, they get a new a guard, Jimmy. And he ends up being more trouble than he’s worth.

* * *

 

Most people get taken in their twenties, when their quotas are coming in and they realize they don’t want kids, can’t handle kids, would need to do some seriously repulsive shit to make kids because they are gay as all hell.

Ian’s younger. Only seventeen.

He’d been acting bizarre for weeks, obsessively digging up the frozen earth in their backyard for an orchard when it’s the middle of February and attempting to brew his own beer, nearly blowing up the house in the process.

Lip is worried and Mickey is so fucking worried, especially when the local doctor goes pale after they finally got Ian to agree to an appointment at the clinic.

“I’m not a mental health expert,” she tells them in her office. “There ain’t nearly enough of those. They all live up north and you need be seriously Pop Com connected to get in. You’re mentally ill, Ian, and I’ll just have to do my best. If they even let me do my best.”

Ian stares straight ahead, his jaw clenched, and Mickey wonders if he’s even listening. Under the table, Mickey rests his hand on Ian’s thigh and Ian immediately covers his hand, squeezing. It’s a little sign of life, proof that Ian is present and listening to these hard fucking truths.

“What do you mean?” asks Lip. “Like, his mind is sick?”

Given how Ian’s been acting these months, it sounds about right to Mickey. He rubs circles on Ian’s knee with his thumb.

“Bipolar, I think,” says the doctor, nodding. “Mood disorder. There’s a cocktail of medications that will level you out, Ian, but it’s different for everyone and it will take some experimenting before we find what works. If the Pop Com even clears you for the prescriptions.”

“Pop Com has to clear it?” Lip asks, scandalized.

Mickey sinks lower and lower in his seat, swimming in fury and fear. Ian shakes his head and looks down.

“Yes,” says the doctor. “There is only a limited supply of these drugs and they review each patient, doling out who gets what based on… well, who they deem worthy.”

“Fuck,” says Lip and Mickey agrees. They know what worthy means to Pop Com. It means people who fit in their box. No one actually fits in their box, but some people can manage it while others just fucking can’t. And Ian, gay, bipolar, hopelessly unconnected, is so fucking far from the goddamn box.

“But he’s young,” Mickey argues futilely. “Strong. Smart. The fuck shouldn’t he be worthy?”

“Mickey,” Ian whispers, a quiet little plea for Mickey to back off, not to make the doctor say it so they won’t have to hear it.

But it’s too late.

“Generally, worth is determined by prospects for reproduction. And given your current situation…” She glances at Mickey then back to her paperwork. At least she appears equally disgusted by what she has to say.

“You don’t have to put that in his application though, right?” Mickey asks, increasingly desperate. “Just, pretend like I’m not even here. Pretend like I don’t exist.”

“Mickey,” Ian says again, louder, aghast.

“I won’t come to the next visit.” Mickey can’t look at Ian. “No one will know. Just don’t put me in his file. Please.”

The doctor winces.

“ _Please_ ,” Mickey begs. Now Ian is the one offering comfort, taking Mickey’s hand in both of his and holding on tight. “Please.”

“Ian, you’ve got a girlfriend,” says the doctor. “Right? _Right_?”

Mickey does look at Ian now and he’s just so fucking lost, his eyes unfocused. He finally nods when Mickey starts nodding.

“Fuck yes he has a girlfriend,” says Lip. “It’s serious, too.”

The doctors sighs. “I’ll make a note of it.”

Ian has to sign something and the doctor walks them out of the office.

“Just keep him out of trouble for awhile, give the application time to go through,” she whispers at Mickey while Ian’s pulling on his coat. “Or at least try.”

They mostly kept him out of trouble.

Until a couple weeks later, when Ian won’t get out of bed. They take turns skipping school to stay with him. Lip’s better at it. Strong and determined, he gets Ian to nibble on toast and go to the bathroom and change his clothes.

Mickey doesn’t do anything but lay next to him, as close as Ian will let him get, watching his chest move as he breathes.

The one time Mickey leaves him alone, the one time he tries to be like Lip and get some juice in Ian, is the one time there’s trouble. Ian slices open his palm from thumb to pinky. There’s so much fucking blood and they can’t make it stop. Lip makes the call for an ambulance when Ian gets so pale.

“I don’t want to die,” Ian tells Mickey on the way to the hospital. “I didn’t do it to die. I just wanted to see if it would hurt.”

“Did it?” Mickey asks.

“No. It doesn’t feel like anything.”

Ian didn’t do it to die but they call it a suicide attempt anyway. Life is precious and suicide is one half step behind murder, on the scale of unforgivable crimes.

Ian gets taken the moment the last stitch is in his palm.

* * *

 

Yev grows up happy.

He takes to the orchards like Mickey did, desperate to know every detail of proper fertilization methods, watering schedules, and the fine art of pruning.

When he was still little he'd slip every once and a while, calling Mickey Dad and then getting embarrassed about it. Sixteen now, he mostly just calls Mickey Mick, like Ian used to.

Yev grows into a happy, curious sixteen year old and Mickey ages too, twenty-seven years old.

Nine years he's been a guard. Ten since he last saw Ian. Four since he found Lip and then shipped him away. He's been promoted countless times, is next in line for Captain of Eighteen when Lishman retires (any day now), and has accidentally started a strangely paced revolution that's infected nearly the entire prisoner population of all twenty-one sections and is slowly spreading through the guards, too.

The high turn over rate of guards helps their poorly formed cause and the ones that actually believe Pop Com bullshit eventually head home to Chicago, while the ones who are here because they lost people, because they are looking for people like Mickey and Veronica, they are in it for the long haul and move up quickly.

Now they've got high ranking guards in nineteen of twenty-one sections, captains in twelve, and their numbers are quietly growing, all waiting for Mickey to give the signal to move.

They look at Mickey like he has a master plan.

Mickey never had A Master Plan. His Only Plan in the last decade has been Find Ian. Instead, he's basically raised a kid, started the spark of a slow burning revolution waiting on him to erupt, and failed everyone he actually cares about, Karen and her baby and Shelia and Lip.

At the big winter meeting a couple months ago they finally hashed out A Master Plan, him, Veronica, Sully, Molly, Este, and a handful of other trusted guards.

That’s always made him uncomfortable, they way shit gets decided without the presence of a single prisoner. But the only way they can really talk is face to face and that’s all done under the cover of agriculture business.  

So Mickey makes sure his voice is Fiona’s and Karen’s and Sheila’s and Yev’s, too.

It was a painful evening that Veronica wouldn’t even let him drink his way through, but they have objectives, now, and strategies and a whole slew of obstacle to tackle. Veronica wanted to give them a name but Sully replied that they already do. The prisoners call themselves Followers of M.

“Fuck,” Mickey muttered, way too sober to hear that. “Am I the M?”

“Yes!” they shouted back, delighted by his discomfort. No one listened when he demanded they come up with something less fucking stupid.

But there’s no shouting now.

"A life is not a body," Mickey mumbles to no one in particular. It's spring again and he's drunk again, surrounded by the family they scraped together out here. Prisoners and guards watch the stars twinkle through the barely blooming branches of trees, listening to Mickey. "What's the fucking point of growing life if this is how we're gonna live it? You don't fit in the box, you get enslaved. Or you can fit in the box but those people you love don't. Or you know that you are more than a body, more than your reproductive abilities, more than what fucking Pop Com wants you to be."

He trails off, thinking about Ian, so bright and hopeful that they would carve out a place for themselves somewhere in this world, that they would make their own damn box. A box in a box.

"Mickey," Veronica murmurs, bumping her shoulder into his. He blinks at her, too drunk already, and she nods out at the group of familiar faces.

Fiona and Jimmy, sitting too close, their relationship taboo anywhere but Eighteen. Yev, bored and weaving long pieces of grass together. Karen, with a notepad in her lap so she can take notes for Shelia who still never goes outside. Beto, smoking weed in the back. There are the new guys too, Malik, Paco, and Little Hank. Right now he’s too drunk to remember if they’re guards or prisoners.

These are his people and he's preaching to the fucking choir.

"Right," he says, shaking his head to clear it, letting Veronica confiscate his alcohol. "We're getting into two more sections. Sully's moving to first overseer of Four—“

"Shit, _Four_?" says Fiona.

"That's huge," agrees Karen.

"Can I finish a fucking thought?” Mickey snaps. “ Fucking please?"

"Fine," says Fiona.

"If you must," agrees Karen.

"Sully's going to Four and Molly's transferring to second overseer of Six," says Mickey.

"So that just leaves Three," says Veronica. "The slaughterhouses. Only section we don’t got people."

"They're gonna do what we've done with all the other sections," Mickey continues, trying to ignore the dwindling number of places left to look for Ian. "Make sure the prisoners have heard the word, see if they've got any sympathetic guards already working there, and start slowly bringing in our people."

Karen groans, kicking out her feet.

"Just fucking don't," Mickey says, waggling a finger at her and sure that she absolutely fucking will.

"It's going to be years!" she says, like she always says whenever they make any progress. "How many more babies are gonna be kidnapped in that time, huh? How many more families torn apart?"

“A fucking lot probably!” Mickey shouts back.

Veronica hands Mickey the bottle back, stepping up to deal with Karen and letting Mickey get back to the heavy drinking. Yev scowls, disproving as always, but he leaves Mickey to his alcohol.

"We're just not there, Karen," says Vee. "We have no way to really communicate with everyone that's not on a government server. We don't have enough people in place to successfully, without a doubt, take The Farmland and hold The Farmland, and that's the only way that we are going to be able to demand the disbanding of Pop Com without there being full out war."

"You really think we're gonna do this without war?" asks Karen like Karen always asks.

"Yeah, I fucking do," Mickey mutters. "No one wants to see that much death. There’s been one fucking murder in the last thirty fucking years and Pop Com debated for nine fucking months before they finally decided to execute the asshole. War’s not in our culture. Pop Com is fucked up, but they ain’t about the kill off the whole population just to keep their power."

"And what if they figure out what we're doing before you're ready to move, Mickey?"

"How many fucking times to we have to go over this?" Fiona asks, on Vee's side. Forever on Vee's side. It makes Mickey miss Lip. "Pop Com doesn't have the resources to monitor The Farmland and control Chicago, too. They would rather enforce the quotas and pick up people who don't follow their rules than watch us, so long as we keep production high."

"If we're fucking careful, do our fucking jobs, and put in the fucking time, we'll get there," Mickey says, closing his eyes and feeling his head spin. He wonders what Ian's doing right now. Hopefully not something completely miserable.

"I still say it's taking too long," mutters Karen.

"Then figure out how we can talk freely with our people in the other sections and the outside world, Goldilocks. Help out or shut up. Now everybody go the fuck away and leave me the fuck alone," Mickey says.

He doesn't even open his eyes as he shoos them off. They go, departing with a chorus of "goodnight, Mickey!" and "we love you, boss," and "don't fall asleep out here again, we wouldn’t want you to catch cold," because they know that he finds niceness irritating when he's this cranky and this drunk.

Yev doesn't leave and when he gets too close Mickey does actually open his eyes, just in time to see Yev placing his woven grass crown on Mickey's head.

"Passed your bedtime, bean sprout," Mickey says.

"Please, I'm sixteen. Were you going to bed at ten when you were sixteen?" Yev asks, rolling his eyes.

"No," Mickey admits.

"What _were_ you doing when you were sixteen?"

Kissing Ian and fucking Ian and dreaming big with Ian are all not acceptable answers so Mickey doesn't give one.

"Was it a man or a woman?" Yev asks.

Tonight, everyone is following an old script, saying things they've said before, asking tired questions Mickey's heard a million times, voicing familiar complaints.

"Veronica's looking for her husband," Yev continues. "I know so much about him. Kev. Short for Kevin. Really tall. Wanted to own a restaurant, even though he wasn't that great at running one. Has a big heart and can't read that good but is loyal as all hell."

Mickey grunts.

"You're looking for someone too." Mickey does not talk about Ian because it hurts too much. Mickey hordes his memory. Vee knows he's looking for someone like she is, and Yev seems to have worked it out on his own. It's way more than anyone else knows. "Man or a woman or some other gender? Do you think you'll find them in Four or Six or Three?"

Mickey grunts.

"I bet it's a man," he whispers to himself.

"Alright," Mickey says, trying to get to his feet. The ground beneath him won't stay fucking still, so he has a hard time until Yev pulls him up by his hands. "You've ruined my drunken night in the orchard. Hope you're fucking proud of yourself."  

Yev laughs, slinging Mickey's arm over his shoulder and practically dragging him back to the compound. "It's totally a man. I bet he's way nicer than you."

* * *

 

On Yev's seventeenth birthday, Lishman officially announces her retirement and Mickey officially becomes Captain of Eighteen, even though he's been running the place for years.

One week after Yev's seventeenth birthday, Fiona comes to him teary-eye. She sits in the chair across from his desk without even knocking on his door of his brand new captain's office. They stare at each other for a few long moments, Fiona's lip quivering, Mickey's eyebrows raised in irritation.

"I fucked up," she finally announces.

Mickey slumps back against his chair. "How bad?"

Fiona winces. "Bad."

"Just fucking tell me, Fiona," he says, hands curling into fists. He presses them into his thighs. Already he's so fucking angry, at Fiona, at the whole situation, at himself for not figuring out how to make her life better before she had the chance to fuck up bad.

And he hasn't even heard what she did yet.

"I'm pregnant," she mutters into her hands.

It's worse than Mickey thought.

"Gonna throw him in The Goddamn Shed," he decides.

"You absolutely will not. It ain't his fault," Fiona says, rolling her eyes. It looks weird, so see someone cry and roll their eyes at the same time.

"Am I not pumping enough fucking birth control into this place?" Mickey snaps, slapping his hands on his desk. Fiona doesn't even flinch. "Do I need to figure how to fix that pipeline?"

"No! Fuck. I did everything right. I swear. Nothing is completely effective."

"Except fucking abstinence!"

Now Fiona is slapping her hands down on Mickey's desk. "Oh, like you're fucking abstinent! Nobody is fucking abstinent!"

Mickey actually is, hasn't even fucked Sully at the winter meeting in years, but now seems like a bad time to mention it.

Rubbing his temples, Mickey tries to get past his headache and his anger and his dread so he can just fucking _think_.

There's Vee's doctor connection, still working out of Six, and they all know what will happen if Fiona carries to term here. Even as captain, he can't hope to keep a fucking pregnancy secret and even if he could pull that off, what the fuck would they do with the kid?

When he was first working to get Lip to the east cost, he originally considered letting him take one of their few, precious Humvees, pulling out the tracker so Lip could just drive himself east. But Lip was sickly and depressed and Mickey couldn’t give him reliable directions to get there, so it seemed safer to stuff him in with the lettuce.

He can't stuff pregnant Fiona and Jimmy in with the lettuce. And being captain has suddenly opened him up to a whole new world of information, including maps upon maps upon maps.

"You want the kid?" Mickey asks.

"The fuck would you ask me that for?" Fiona is snarling, furious and heartbroken. "You know it's not an option so why fucking ask me about it? That's cruel, you _asshole_."

"But it might be. It might be an option."

* * *

 

"Yev," Mickey murmurs, disturbing the quiet of the evening. The lights are low in his office and it almost feels cozy, just him and the kid in here; Mickey working but mostly daydreaming about Ian, and Yev on a tablet, supposedly working on the school assignments Mickey insists he complete but probably just playing some stupid game as he lazes about on Mickey's couch.

"Huh?" he replies, eyes still on the tablet.

"You're a smart kid, you know?"

Yev glances at him, puzzled. "What?" he asks with a laugh. "You drunk?"

"I wish."

"You need to drink less, old man."

"You need to mind your own fucking business, bean sprout." But there is no heat behind his words, just fondness covering the deep ache in his rib cage.

Everyone he loves goes away. Ian. Lip. Fiona, in a few weeks.

And Yev, too.

"This is a shitty place to grow up," Mickey says.

Yev sets the tablet aside, sitting up now and watching Mickey with his head cocked to the side. "Wasn't so bad. Better than where I came from."

Mickey's never gotten the fully story on how twelve year old Yev – North Side family, Pop Com father – ended up locked in a closet for five days and then taken here to Eighteen. Mickey doubts he ever will.

"This shouldn't be your whole life," Mickey continues.

"Why not? I like the orchards. My family's here. You're my family."

Digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, Mickey tries not to fucking weep. "I know, kid."

"Then what the fuck are you saying?"

Mickey takes a deep breath, and just says it, telling Yev that in a few weeks Jimmy is gonna "steal" a Humvee and Mickey's detailed captain maps and take Fiona to Boston to protect their baby.

"You want me to go too?" Yev whispers, eyes huge.

" _Want_?" Mickey snorts. "Fuck no. But it'll be good for you, to get a real education and a real chance at a fucking future."

"Mick—“

"Friend of mine growing up, Lip. He's out there. Got him smuggled out of Eighteen years ago. Dude's even smarted than you. Wrote his own whole language when he was eleven. And if you find him, he'll teach you shit."

"No way. Not gonna fucking leave."

"Yeah," whispers Mickey, hating that this is the right thing to do. "You fucking are."

It takes a couple days of Yev giving him the silent treatment and a few more big fights in Mickey's office, but Yev comes around.

* * *

 

Veronica is not one to drink. Says she did a lot of it, in that dreary time between her husband getting taken and signing up to guard, but this morning before sun up they stood side by side and watched Fiona, Jimmy, and Yev drive east. So tonight Veronica gets drunk with him.

"Wish we coulda gone with," murmurs Vee, clutching a bottle to her chest.

"Yeah," Mickey agrees, feeling as completely miserable as Vee sounds.

"If I knew, if I knew for one hundred percent certain that Kev was gone, that'd I'd never, ever see him again, I'd go with. That's my best friend we set away. My pregnant best friend. And your fucking kid!"

Mickey drinks long and deep. "Not my kid."

"Yes your kid," Veronica insists. "His biological father locked him in a dark closet for five days and then sent him here. You raised him up, treated him like a child instead of a prisoner, forced him to do school work instead of putting him in the fields. He's fucking yours."

Mickey grunts. He doesn't have the energy to argue.

"We just have each other, now," Vee whispers.

"Stop," Mickey replies.

"Mickey, they're not in Six. They're not in Four. We've got people in every other section who'd tell us the moment they get a prisoner transfer with people matching their description. People die, Mickey.   And if they ain't in Three—“

"I said fucking _stop_!" Mickey yells, slamming his fist down on his desk and making Vee jump. "Can't fucking hear that shit. After we get in Three, then we'll have this goddamn talk but I can't fucking hear it on the day we watched Yev and Fiona roll the fuck away."

Vee sniffs back her tears and nods.

They keep drinking, not really talking now, and Mickey's tablet pings on his desk with an email. He glances at it out of habit, having no intention of actually opening the thing. He ‘s in no shape for working or thinking or do anything other than drinking. Still, he reads the subject line, a spam email advertising an app for some shitty game, goes back to his bottle, and then really thinks about what he just read.

"Holy fuck!" he shouts with a laugh, diving towards his tablet and opening his email with clumsy fingers.

"What? Shit, Mickey, what!"

"Lip Latin," he says, giggling to himself.

"What?" screeches Vee, thoroughly alarmed now.

"The subject of this email is in Lip Latin," Mickey repeats as if Vee would have any fucking idea what he's talking about.

"Lip Latin?" repeats Vee, raising an eyebrow. She looks like she's about to confiscate his booze bottle but Mickey doesn't give a fuck because he just got an email in Lip Latin.

"So Lip's trans, right?" he rushes to explain.

"Right.”

"Right," says Mickey. "And my dad is a raging, violent bigot, so when he was around we had to pretend that Lip was a girl to keep him safe from Terry. Eventually, Lip had enough, so he wrote his own fucking language. Asshole spent a whole summer when we were eleven making Ian and me learn it, so whenever we were around someone who'd want to hurt Lip if they knew, we'd talk in Lip Latin."

“Ian? That’s your guy’s name? Ian.”

“Mind your own fucking business.”

Vee throws her head back and laughs. "That's the most I've ever heard you talk about your past! Should get drunk with you more often."

Mickey rolls his eyes. "Vee, this email is from Lip! It looks like just a stupid ad for a game app, but there are lines in Lip Latin. This," he says, tilting the table so Veronica can see. "It reads 'Get the app, asshole. Safe. Promise.'"

" _Is_ it safe, though? Couldn't someone crack the code?"

"Lip Latin ain't no fucking code," Mickey says, rolling his eyes. "It's a language that Lip spend months developing when he was like, ten, basing it off some ancient language rules or something. He made it up. Nothing to crack."

"Wow," says Veronica, frowning. "You gonna do it?"

"Fuck yeah," he says, already following the link to download the app. When he opens it up, it looks like just a game that involves pinging a ball off walls, but there is more Lip Latin scrolling along the bottom, providing secret instructions to access some secret part of the app. He's too drunk for this and has to close one eye to see his screen. He has to redo his typing a lot, but eventually he gets to a screen that looks like an instant message chat. When it pings with a message, both Vee and Mickey jump and squeak.

LG: took you long enough you bastard

"Mickey!" Veronica says, shaking his shoulders. "That's Lip! That's Lip!"

"I fucking know!" he says, grinning wider than he has in a long time. "Stop shaking me. Need to focus."

MM: holy fuck

MM: you goddamn genius

LG: i know right?

LG: bask in my glory

MM: this safe?

LG: fuck you

LG: obviously its safe wouldn't send you something not safe.

LG: pass the link on to your buddies and you can talk to them this way, too. let me know and i'll get them usernames.

MM: holy fuck

LG: wish you were here

LG: boston is awesome

MM: not going no where without your brother

LG: any luck on that?

MM: don't want to fucking talk about it

MM: fi's on her way to you

LG: ????????

MM: prego. got her bf and my kid with her

LG: YOU HAVE A KID WHAT THE FUCK

MM: a kid. not mine biology-wise. hes 17. smart. been at 18 since he was 12

LG: oh

MM: think you'll be able to find them? should be there in a couple days? a week?

LG: probably

LG: working on big things here, brother

MM: fucking as you should be

* * *

Mickey drinks too much. He misses Yev's humor and needs Fiona's advice and fucking aches for Ian all the time.

There is shit to do, Eighteen to run and a slow moving, accidental revolution to head, and he does these things but he also drinks too much.

He lies his way through a meeting with the Pop Com members doing a shit job of overseeing The Farmlands, explaining how a guard managed to abscond with a Humvee and two prisoners to parts unknown. Mickey takes full responsibility for Jimmy's crimes. Jimmy's his guard, after all, and his mistakes are really Mickey's. Pop Com likes how he owns up and promises (lies) to crack down on all prisoner-guard interaction. Somehow he walks away from the meeting in an even better position with Pop Com than when he walked in.

He drinks himself stupid the moment he gets back to Eighteen.

At the winter meeting he passes out handwritten introductions to Lip Latin and how to download Lip's little app, with firm instructions to memorize and then burn that shit.

During the short days of the winter months he drinks and fails to help out in the sewing room. Shelia lets him hang out anyway. Probably because she feels sorry for him. Prisoners and guards watch him warily and Mickey drinks as he pretends not to notice.

And then an opening comes through, the First Overseer of Three.

"Vee," Mickey slurs. "Vee, look." He shows off the email and Veronica's eyes get wide.

"You gonna recommend someone for that position?" she asks. “Finally get someone in there?”

Mickey raises his eyebrows and just stares at her until she gets it.

"Oh, _shit_."

* * *

 

Under the condition that Mickey stop fucking drinking – to be enforced by Sheila and Karen – Veronica accepts the transfer on a Monday.

The following Wednesday, after hugging every fucking prisoner and most of the fucking guards, Veronica actually transfers.

On a Thursday, she pings Mickey through Lip's app. On a Thursday they infiltrate the last section. On a Thursday, in the last place left to look for Ian, Mickey finds him.

VF: he's here, mickey

VF: they both are

VF: it doesnt feel real

VF: i'm transferring him to you now keep an eye on your email

* * *

 

It takes a week for the transfer to go through, and another day to nail down the logistics. Three is too far from Eighteen, so they’re gonna fly Ian in, pick up some work clothes for their prisoners while they’re at it.

There are a million details that he nearly misses and he only manages to function because with Vee gone, Karen and Beto have taken to hovering over his shoulder.

An hour before Ian’s supposed to get here, Mickey goes to pace around the pad. Heart racing, palms sweating, Mickey reminds himself that he’s already thrown up the nothing in his stomach earlier, so he probably won’t do it again.

Time passes slow and no matter how hard he stares at his watch nothing will inspire it to move faster. By some miracle the minutes finally fall into the single digits and Mickey feels like he’s vibrating. He thumbs at his lip and wants to see Ian just slightly more than he does not want to see Ian.

Seeing Ian means that he’ll have to come to terms with whatever’s happened to Ian as a prisoner in the last decade. What being bipolar, un-medicated, and working out of Three – the fucking slaughterhouse where people lose appendages and kill things – will mean for Ian.

Part of him just doesn’t want to fucking know.

Most of him just wants to fucking see Ian _now_.

“What’s _wrong_ with you?”

Mickey throws a quick glance over his shoulder to see Karen gaping at him but then goes back to staring at the sky, an activity only interrupted by staring at his watch.

“Seriously,” she says, coming to stand at his side. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Fuck off, _now_.”

“Why are you the only one out here for this transfer?” she asks. “Shelia said you specifically banned everyone from the pad.”

“Everyone includes you, blondie. Fuck off.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Mickey!”

“The fuck, Karen! Ain’t I in fucking charge of this shithole? Don’t that mean you’ve gotta listen to me?”

Karen rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. “Ain’t that the kinda thing you’ve been talking about tearing down for years?”

She makes a stupidly good point and before he can even consider continuing this argument, a tiny little dot appears in the sky.

Mickey makes an inarticulate squeaking sound, jumps, and accidentally grabs Karen’s hand. He drops it the second he realizes what he’s doing and doesn’t look away from the little dot that’s growing larger. Ian’s on that dot.

“Okay,” whispers Karen. “Now I’m really worried.”

Although he can feel her loiter a few feet behind him, Karen seems content to silently wait this thing out and Mickey’s happy to ignore her, too busying completely falling apart to worry about Karen seeing it.

His eyeballs get dry from lack of blinking and the craft finally lands in front of him, the wind coming off it doing nothing to help the dry eye situation. Mickey thinks he might throw up more of the nothing in his stomach.

The ramp comes down slowly and Mickey gets closer, right up to the very edge. He wraps his arms around himself in hopes that he won’t shatter and rubs his thumb against his lip some more.

There are black boots on the ramp, too small feet in standard issue guard-ware. Mickey’s still trying to understand the too small feet when he notices the woman attached to them, right in front of his nose.

“The fuck are you?” she says.

Mickey feels a bit like she’s stolen his line.

“Where is he?” Mickey demands, taking a step towards the ramp, ready to go tear this hovercraft apart to find Ian.

“You’re gonna answer my question first, asshole,” she says. Her hair is dark and ratty, her eyes blue and angry. Mickey hates her immediately. “Where’s your captain? Sounds like he put in for this goddamn transfer. Why this prisoner, huh? The fuck is going on?”

This little wisp of a mouthy guard is one obstacle to many to his decade long mission to find Ian, and he tries to get around her. He can’t think past _Ian_ and when she presses two hands to his chest to shove him back, he stumbles in surprise.

“Whoa,” says Karen, rushing in and making the whole fucking thing worse. “Don’t fucking touch him!”

“Back off, prisoner!” snaps the guard.

“Who you calling prisoner, bitch!”

“You wanna fucking say that again?” The guard sticks a finger in Karen’s face. Mickey thinks she might bite it off. “Where’s your goddamn captain? I’m reporting you.”

Karen throws back her head and laughs.

Panic sings in Mickey’s veins. Too much is going on around him, but none of it involves Ian.

Eleven years without Ian, trying to be strong for Ian, trying to find Ian, and Mickey’s run out of endurance. He needs Ian now and that means finding the right words to convince this guard to move and Karen to not bite off anyone’s fingers.

“Here,” Mickey manages. At his quiet declaration Karen falls silent and the guard looks at him, raising a single, unimpressed eyebrow.

“What?” asks the guard.

“I’m the fucking—“ He waves his hand in the direction of the compound, struggling to breathe and speak. “Captain of Eighteen. Mickey. That’s me.”

The guard rocks back on her heels, crossing her arms over her chest and blatantly studying him from head to toe. “You’re too young. And too short.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Get the fuck out of my way.”

“No. Not until you explain this bullshit.”

“Move!”

“No! What do you want with him, huh? The fuck is this?”

“Mick?”

All heads turn to the top of the ramp, and there’s Ian, eleven years older and still the most stunningly beautiful thing Mickey’s ever seen. Ian is staring at him, eyes wide and huge. There are lines around those eyes now, and his hair is a little too long, the curls messy. He’s too skinny, adorned in brown and grey clothes all the prisoners wear, and Mickey can’t breathe.

He’s vaguely aware of the guard rushing back up the ramp, simpering at Ian, but Mickey can’t make out the words, can only stare at Ian who is staring back with a combination of shock and awe and fear. Mickey’s feeling all that, too.

Maybe after all this time, he is content to just get to look at Ian, memorizing everything that’s changed and everything that hasn’t and loving it all. Maybe he’s terrified of what Ian’s been through or that he won’t be so fucking relieved and elated to see Mickey like Mickey is to see him. Maybe he’s having some sort of traumatic episode that makes it impossible to move.

Whatever the reason, he can’t bring himself to rush up the ramp and pull Ian into his arms like he so desperately wants to do. He imagines nuzzling into Ian’s cheek and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, holding him tight and running his fingers through his hair.

A moment later, his frozen state becomes a good thing because another a guard appears and Mickey remembers that he can’t just be hugging on prisoners in front of these strangers. That kinda shit might be okay here on Eighteen, but probably isn’t cool in Three, and he sure as shit doesn’t need to be reported to Pop Com right now, not with the fledgling revolution creeping closer to its goals, not with Ian right fucking here.

“You the captain?” asks the new guard, handing Mickey a tablet.

Mickey manages a nod.

“Have a shipment of prisoner clothes for me?”

Mickey turns to find Karen still standing behind him with narrowed eyed. “Hey, go grab Beto. He’s dealing with the clothes.”

After a span of too many seconds, Karen nods and begrudgingly leaves.

Mickey feels itchy as he reads the tablet. Ian eyes are still on him, and all the bureaucratic bullshit is nearly unbearable with Ian so close.

“That’s for the prisoner transfer,” says the new guard as if Mickey can’t fucking read. “The next one is for the guard transfer.”

Mickey glances up at the lady guard as she leads Ian down the ramp, her hand wrapped around his elbow. She scowls back.

Mickey seriously considers refusing the transfer and sending her back to Three, but Vee signed off on the guard too, and Mickey trusts her judgment.

“Come on,” Mickey says, gesturing for Ian and his goddamn guard dog to follow. Beto and a couple of others are moving crates of clothes onto the pad, so there is no fucking reason to stick around. Mickey can’t even look at Ian, not when he’s playing the part of dutiful captain.

Inside he finds Shelia at the front desk. “Ah, who do we have here? New faces! Welcome, welcome.”

“Can you get this guard settled?” Mickey asks. “Guess she staying.”

“Of course,” says Shelia, bowing slightly. “I’m Shelia.”

The new guard appears faintly bemused and Mickey smirks. “Mandy,” she replies.

“Welcome to Eighteen, Mandy!” says Shelia. “And you are?”

“Ian,” says Mandy, speaking for him, annoying Mickey to no end.

“I’ll deal with his intake,” Mickey says, finally looking at Ian again. They linger in an intense moment of staring and Mickey doesn’t feel the need to throw up anymore. “Come on,” Mickey says, nodding in the direction of his room.

“Wait, hold up,” says Mandy.

“Hey,” says Ian, his voice a low rumble. It’s deeper than Mickey remembers, more hoarse. “Mandy, it’s fine.”

The damn guard dog backs off, but doesn’t stop staring until he and Ian turn a corner and get out of sight.

* * *

 

When Mickey gets Ian up to his room, there is more silence and staring.

Mickey can’t stop touching his mouth and Ian drops his bag to the ground. It rattles, Ian wincing over the sound, and Mickey wonders if that rattle means pills. Maybe Ian somehow managed to get himself medicated even in the terrifying kill-house that is Three.

Mickey wants to ask, but he can’t mange any words.

In all the time he’s devoted to imagining his reunion with Ian, he never thought it’d be so goddamn _awkward_. Somehow, in his head, they’d just fall into who they were together at age seventeen.

He’s changed so fucking much since he was seventeen, and so has Ian. Fuck, for all Mikey knows Ian could love someone back at Three and Mickey could’ve fucked up his life. When Vee found him, Mickey didn’t even think of anything but seeing him again, _finally_ , and Mickey’s stomach starts bubbling over the possibilities.

Fuck, what if Ian doesn’t want him? Doesn’t want to be here? Doesn’t want to remember anything about their long ago life together?

When Ian opens his mouth, Mickey braces himself for the worst.

“Are you real?” Ian whispers.

Biting his lip, Mickey nods but Ian doesn’t look convinced.

“Can I?” Ian wiggles his fingers, reaching towards Mickey.

That little finger wiggling is all it takes for Mickey to brave the few feet between them that seemed so indomitable just a moment before. Getting close enough to feel his warmth, Mickey holds his breath as Ian lifts his shaking fingers to Mickey’s cheek.

“Oh,” Ian murmurs when his fingers make contact, and Mickey shudders. “Oh, Mickey.”

He can’t hold himself back any longer. Wrapping a hand around the back of Ian’s neck, Mickey tugs him down into a hug. Ian shakes against him, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s waist and holding on tight. Tears heat Mickey’s cheeks and he squeezes his eyes shut, running his fingers through Ian’s hair at the back of his head and ignoring just how fucking boney Ian feels pressed into his chest. At least Ian smells just the same. Mickey breathes him in deep. Ian hides his face against Mickey’s neck and Mickey’s knees rattle together.

They stand, wrapped around each other, for long minutes, and for the first time in a decade Mickey can breathe properly, knowing that whatever else Ian’s been through, at least in this moment he is safe.

Ian’s hands run over his back, sweeping across his shoulder blades and pressing into each bump of his spine. Mickey keeps touching his hair, giving Ian time to trace each bone and catalog the differences. His belly is soft now, but his arms are stronger from climbing every tree in his orchard. He hopes Ian doesn’t mind it and hums as Ian fingers ghost over his ribs.

They keep standing there and Mickey considers allowing his own hands to wander the planes of Ian’s body, until Ian’s hands run down his sides, knocking into the stun gun at hip.

The change is instant. Ian tenses up and pushes away, scrambling to put distance between them again. Completely horrified, Ian backs away from Mickey until he hits a wall.

“Whoa,” says Mickey. His hands are still raised, like he’s still holding Ian.

“You’re a fucking _guard_ ,” Ian spits, throwing out the word like an accusation.

“Yeah,” Mickey says.

“You’re a goddamn captain! Leader of the fucking _guards_!”

“Well, yeah. Technically, that’s true.”

“Technically!” Ian shouts. Instead of terrified, now he just looks pissed. It’s a relief. Mickey would rather have Ian angry at him than afraid of him. “The fuck are you doing here, asshole? You’re fucking one of them.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “You got it all wrong.”

“There’s a fucking gun at your hip,” Ian points out. He’s vibrant and alive and livid, but so much different from Mickey’s last memories of him.

Mickey wants to kiss him.

Instead he unclips the gun from his belt and tosses it across the room, away from Ian. He was only wearing it today to look like an actual captain for the guards from Three.

“Never used it,” he says.

Ian crosses his arms over his chest, his chin jutting out.

“Seriously,” Mickey says. “Never used it once. It’s not like that here.”

“Bullshit,” Ian yells. “The fuck are you even doing out here, Mick?”

“What? You thought I was just gonna let them take you the fuck away?” Mickey screams back, red faced and furious. He’s been angry for years and it’s bursting out of him now, when all he really wants to do is sit quietly with Ian and hear about everything that’s happened to him in the last decade. “Thought I would just go about my goddamn business and leave you out here to rot? You try sitting on your ass when the person you love is fucking dragged away!”

“You coulda had a fucking life!” Ian’s pacing around Mickey’s room now, fists clenched at his sides. At least this hasn’t changed. Ian moving when he’s angry or frustrated. “You coulda moved on and had a fucking _life_ , instead of selling your goddamn soul to become a fucking captain!”

“What fucking life?” Mickey stomps his foot and barely refrains from punching a nearby wall.

“Mickey—“

“What fucking life would I of had without you, huh?” Mickey continues. “Maybe I coulda moved on and found a way to not be miserable, but how could I settle for that, when I knew what they fucking stole from us? Fuck, I woulda spent my whole life hating myself, if I didn’t do something about you getting taken. If I figured out a way to not be miserable when you were out here. I wasn’t gonna give up on you. Not fucking ever.”

The pacing stops and Ian’s standing before him again, his expression soft. “Mickey—“

“I’m fucking sorry,” Mickey says to his own toes. Looking at Ian is too painful because Mickey’s failed him constantly, for years and years. “I’m so fucking sorry it took me so fucking long, that you were in the very last place I managed to look. That I let them fucking take you in the first place.”

“Mickey—“

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m—“

Big hands cradle his face and his apologies get lost against Ian’s lips. Mickey whimpers, kissing Ian back so hard it hurts.

It’s better than he remembers, more intense, and for a moment he worries that his heart will beat right out of his chest.

Ian is desperate, biting Mickey’s lips and licking Mickey’s teeth. Looming over him, Ian walks Mickey backwards towards the bed. He rips at Mickey’s clothes like they personally offended him (which they obviously do).

Mickey will take anything Ian wants to give, but he would rather slow down and savor. More than anything, he wants to just look at Ian for a while, but Ian’s hands are hot on Mickey’s skin, the taste of his tongue familiar in his mouth, and Mickey gets swept up.

“Mickey,” Ian manages through his harsh breathing. “Missed you. Fuck, missed you so fucking much.”

Too caught up to verbally agree, Mickey just allows Ian to push him down to the mattress and pull off his pants. Ian gets his own shirt off over his head, and then stares down at Mickey like he’s precious, stares down at Mickey like it hurts to look at him.

Maybe if they just keep touching, it won’t hurt so much. They won’t think about how long they’ve been apart and how much of each others' lives they missed.

“Come here,” Mickey says, sitting up to undo Ian’s belt. “Please, come here.”

Ian scrambles to get fully naked before lowering himself into the cradle of Mickey’s thighs. He is more content to go slow now, allowing Mickey to trace his cheekbones.

“Mickey,” Ian whispers.

“Hi,” he replies. “Fuck, were you always this beautiful?”

Ian beams and Mickey leans up to catch his lips. Some of that frenetic energy leaves Ian and they kiss slowly, thoroughly. Mickey opens his eyes every few seconds just to be sure it’s really Ian on top of him, just to be sure he isn’t dreaming. He catches Ian with his eyes open, too, and then presses a laugh into his neck.

Ian rolls his hips and Mickey makes him dig around in the bedside drawer for the lube because he can’t bear the thought of letting go of Ian for even one moment. Both his hands need to be touching Ian for the foreseeable future.

The burn is familiar and better than he remembers but when Ian finally gets in him, all those years they were separated boil down to nothing. It’s like they never stopped doing this, never stopped being together.

Mickey feels like he’s blooming, coming alive after a long winter under Ian’s spring warm hands.

“Love you, love you, love you,” Ian chants. Mickey returns the sentiment with everything but words, unable to speak.

And if Mickey cries a little when he comes, he’s not the only one.

* * *

 

Falling asleep when Ian is in his bed for the first time in so long is a goddamn crime, but Mickey does it anyway. He’s fucking exhausted, drained by feeling so much conflicting emotion so intensely.

Ian’s here, solid and real in Mickey’s arms. Ian’s safe. And Mickey can finally rest.

When Mickey opens his crusty eyes sometime after sundown, it’s to see Ian’s nose only inches from his. Ian’s head is resting on Mickey’s pillow, even though he’s got one of his own. Beneath the blankets their legs are intertwined. In the space between their chests, Ian runs his fingers over Mickey’s knuckles.

Mickey wants to do something stupid. Like cry again.

“Found you,” Ian whispers, lines around his eyes crinkling.

Mickey grins back. “Found you, too.”

Because that’s what they do. They find each other.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I left this pretty open ended. I'm tossing around the idea of doing a part 2 from Ian's POV if anyone is interested. I've never been less confident about anything I've posted in my life, so if you want more it would be nice to know. I might write it anyway though. We shall see.
> 
> Also! I've got lots of Shameless fanfic plans so if anyone is interested in beta reading for me let me know!
> 
> Tumblr! I have one! I'm jaxington.


End file.
